


Submission

by Shes-claws-deep (CyrilOdahviing)



Series: Flash Sale Sep 2018 [10]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dom/sub, Dominance, F/M, Femdom, Kissing, Romance, Submission, sentimental stuff, sfw, sub!Reaper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 06:49:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16057769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyrilOdahviing/pseuds/Shes-claws-deep
Summary: Reaper is old and tired. He's dead, sad, and lonely, wishing for someone to hold him when he breaks, for someone to lead him when he wanders astray. So used to being the big man, he's not sure he has what it takes to let go, to let someone else call the shots. But when that someone comes around, he learns that maybe submission is what he needs.





	Submission

Gabriel is used to being the biggest man in the room, both physically and in rank. He’s used to looming over his subordinates and his partners and watching them lower their head before him. It’s not quite a boost to his ego, but he doesn’t lie when he says that he feels comfortable being looked up to. When he says that he’s so used to being in control that it fits like a well-fitted glove.

Perhaps it’s because of his skin, his beard, the almost permanent bitch face he sports, but he’s used to being looked at in fear, in apprehension. He doesn’t like it. But he’s used to it. Used to the way they’d quiver before him in submission, waiting for the other shoe to drop whenever he wills it. To an extent he likes the rush of power; the feeling of having them at his mercy, whatever it may be. He’d lie if he says a rush of warmth would fill him when he’d see their skin bruised and reddened from his impassioned grips and slaps. He’d lie if he says he didn’t grow hard when they’d whimper and beg. Beg for him to fuck them harder. Beg for him to take away the last vestiges of power from them and render them weak-kneed from how hard he uses them. He’d lie if he said it was how he loved for the longest time.

But death does a lot of things to a person. Not in the least change them fundamentally, mentally, physically. He feels angry now, unable to control his emotions and his body as he wreaks destruction upon those he used to call comrades. Friends. Family. So now, years on from the last time he drew breath, Reaper yearns for something different than he knew in life. Now what he wants is so foreign to him that he hasn’t the slightest clue how to go about finding it. What he wants isn’t what he’s used to. Isn’t something he thought he’d ever find.

Quietly to himself in his loneliness, Reaper wonders what it’d be like to be held so tenderly that he might melt in an embrace. What it’d be like to feel so safe that he can close his eyes and rest for the first time in what feels like forever. What it’d be like to be tamed with a single hand to his chest and a soft pair of lips to his bristly cheek. He would curl in a corner around a lumpy pillow, hood drawn over his head and over his eyes, thin blankets cocooning him, and imagine that instead of scratchy wool it was a warm body holding him securely. That instead of a pillow that smells of musty mothballs, he’d be clutching at the clothes of someone who would protect him from the world that seems to be out to ruin him in every way. It feels like a pipe dream to have someone who he would allow that much power over him. He’s not one to let go of control, of his strength. But in his undeath Reaper has had much time to think and he wonders if that is what he needs. For someone to know how to protect him and to hold the reins for a little while as he lets go and just exists. Instead of his bare existence now, living from day to day and praying that it might end. He doesn’t know what he wants anymore. Maybe…maybe someone who makes that decision for him would finally lead him off his path of self-destruction and sorrow.

When that someone comes, he has to admit he doesn’t see it coming. Or rather, he misses you completely. You’re a little waif of a thing, tiny compared to his hulking frame. So small that the first time he met you he walked into you and didn’t register that you bounced off of his armoured chest until you threw your middle finger up in the air and snarled at him to watch where he’s going. With his mask and his reputation, he’s surprised that you seemed unfazed by his towering height and the perpetual aura of killing intent that wafts around him. Ignorant of the fact that you’re practically half his size, or perhaps you just didn’t care, you shove him out of your way so you can storm down the hall. So surprised was he that he let you, falling against the wall and watching your back in indignance and curiosity both.

He later finds out you’re his new handler and dispatcher. Responsible for his assignments and feeding him intelligence while he’s out on the job. Grumbling and grousing he complains to Akande that he needs no handler; he does that well enough on his own. The Talon kingpin laughed off his request, musing that he’d come to see why you’re placed where you are.

So off Reaper goes on his merry way, dealing death and weathering your nagging through the earpiece. That’s not to say you don’t say anything useful; you do. In fact, Reaper wagers you saved him a great deal of time healing by redirecting him away from enemy positions. He also wagers that you enjoy seeing him suffer when you crow at his reluctant admissions that you were right after all.

As the days turn to weeks, as the weeks turn to months, Reaper grows accustomed to your voice in his ear. It feels strange to be without you than it felt when you first spoke to him. The days that he had to go without you were the ones where he felt twitchy, antsy, waiting for you to chime in his left ear with bated breath. Days where he’d let out a choked breath at hearing someone else inform him of a sniper in position several buildings away. Days where, when he returns to base, he’d seek you out at the earliest opportunity if only to chew you out on why you’re not on duty. If it was a sick day, he’d slink away with his tail between his legs only to return with a bowl of his abuela’s caldo de pollo, grumbling that you should take better care of yourself. If it was a day where you’ve been assigned to a different mission, Reaper would bristle and hiss that he’d take care of your target if you’d only asked.

He can tell that it makes you smile when he says that. That you need only say the word to make him do something. That he would be at your beck and call if you only wished it. That you’re the only person who makes his day a little less shitty just by chiding him about his wasteful habit of discarding his shotguns. He bends his head as if to avert his gaze from you despite his mask hiding his face. As if you wouldn’t be able to tell his vulnerable state just from his body language alone.

Proud, strong Gabriel Reyes, worn down by years of undeath and loneliness, extends a ghostly hand forth in search of warmth. He’s comfortable in his darkness and his cold existence, that much is true. He cannot deny that. But after so long, he yearns for just a little bit of kindness and a bit of company. He lets his tense shoulders slump, his clawed hands gentle and unresisting on your wrists as you carefully pull the mask from his face. The shocked gasp is something he expected; he flinches, ducks his head and turns away so you’d not see the washed out complexion of his once glorious tan. Your aroused purr, though, takes him by surprise.

Your hands, so soft and gentle, cup his scarred and deathly pale face. Rasps past the permanent five o’clock shadow that would never grow into his old beard and into his unruly hair. You whisper that he doesn’t look too bad for death warmed over and Reaper laughs a shaky laugh, all too aware of the black smoke that leaks from the cracks in his lips. He clams up then, biting his lip and apologising for his monstrous appearance. How you could see his former beauty, he has no idea, but damn him if he doesn’t lap it up like a kitten does milk.

Unfazed by his self-deprecation as you were his first impression on you, you merely take your hand out of his hair and press it to his chest. Urging him back to the wall. Mesmerised by your confidence and your strength, he goes without a word, back flat against the metal and abdomen flush against your softer figure. He moans quietly at the feel of your warmth seeping into him, at the feel of your hands closing around his neck and his straining cock both. Impossibly, he softens further into you and curls down, feeling you press your lips against his still pulse and weeps inwardly for the life that no longer beats in his chest.

He’s sorry. Sorry that he cannot warm you, cannot serenade you with the steady thump of his heart. Sorry that-

You stop him with your slightly chapped lips on his cracked ones. Softly you chastise him in that way he’s so familiar with, slapping the back of his head. It’s a move and a phrase he’s so familiar with that he just quietens down and nods. Accepts your whispered scolding that you’re the one to decide how perfect he is for you. That it’s your choice, and you choose him.

Reaper breaks then, gritting his teeth to stem the little gems of tears that bead in the corner of his eyes. He buries his head in your hair, breathing you in, begging you to take him. If he’s worth nothing to himself but something to you, then he will be that something for you. Maybe with you at his helm, he can be someone that he can be proud of seeing in the mirror again.

You see the tears, the utter submission in his eyes, and press your forehead to his neck. Tell him if he would have you, if he would give you his submission, then you will be everything and anything he needs to battle the world that is out for him. That if he gave you himself, you would give him the world.

The sentiment makes him snort at how flowery it sounds from your mouth. But his reply is just as sentimental, he concedes, muttering that you’re his world. That’s all he needs.

The deal is sealed with a kiss, a kiss that trails down to his throat where you slowly dot little butterfly kisses all over the dull skin. Reaper moans and wraps his arms around you and presses his now straining erection into your belly as you form a collar of kiss marks over his unyielding flesh. Your lipstick is gone, given freely to the man who drops to his knees before you.

For Reaper, those marks are a promise. He might not draw breath any longer, might not have blood pumping in his veins that can break and bruise, but whatever he can give you, he will. He cups the back of your knees tenderly in his gauntleted hands, caressing up your thighs until he fills his palms with your ass. With an open-mouthed kiss to your hip, he pledges his allegiance, squeezing and pulling you impossibly closer.

Death changes a lot of things. Perspective. Goals. Wants. Needs. Reaper thinks that if he met you but 8 years earlier he might not have this. There isn’t much that he’s grateful nowadays, but this? This he will forever cherish.


End file.
